Slush

In the hush of dawn the city wakes,
A thin veil of slush upon the grey‑kissed streets,
Where lorry tyres sigh and pavements gleam,
Each step a soft, reluctant splash beneath weary feet.

The pavement, slick as polished pewter,
Mirrors the pale sky’s indifferent stare,
While children’s laughter, muffled, breaks
The quiet hymn of winter’s lingering affair.

Slush gathers in the kerb’s reluctant clutch,
A slurry of snow and thaw, half‑formed, half‑gone,
It clings to the soles of hurried boots,
A fleeting reminder that spring has not yet dawn.

Yet in its transient, soggy gleam,
There lies a modest, muted grace—
A world half‑frozen, half‑awake,
Where cold and warmth reluctantly embrace.

So let the slush linger, a quiet poet’s stanza,
On Britain’s damp, enduring thoroughfares,
A verse of water and ice, in fleeting balance,
Whispering that even winter’s grudge sometimes repairs.